Auld Lang Syne
I’ve never been one to celebrate the new year in the contemporary ways of sparkly outfits and dancey parties and kisses at midnight, mainly because I’ve rarely been invited to such parties or had anyone to kiss. I’m also not the type to make a list of resolutions or set goals for myself. Just the idea of goal-setting triggers upsetting memories of elementary school, when everyone else was excited to share with the class what they wanted to be when they grew up, but I didn’t have ambitions for much of anything beyond watching TV and sitting alone in my room, so I said “marine biologist,” because that’s what my best friend said. I’m still not sure exactly what a marine biologist does.
My New Year traditions are more of the pagan variety: burning the Christmas tree in a snowy bonfire, opening all the windows in the house to release stale air, buying a new notebook and planner, and taking a vacation to reset my nervous system and recover from the previous year’s burnout.
Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t welcome an opportunity to reflect on the past 12 months and make meaning of my experiences. Reflection and meaning-making is, like, the whole bag. So, for old times’ sake, like Robbie Burns said, I’m hoisting a cup of kindness to these old acquaintances from 2025:
- The guy I went on a date with at Terlingua, where he ordered exactly one pulled pork taco and proceeded to tell me about moving back to Maine with his ex after their house in D.C. burned down under mysterious circumstances.
- The guy I went on a lunch date with at Shay’s, where he ordered a chicken caesar wrap and an iced tea and I ordered a fried chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke, and then realized I’d forgotten my wallet, so he sent me a Venmo request.
- The guy who broke up with me over the phone in January because he “couldn’t make [me] happy” and “didn’t love [me] anymore.”
- The places that guy and I went in Portland where I can’t go now for fear of running into him and/or his many family members. Like RíRá, where we went to hear Irish session music with my parents one time and ran into his aunt and uncle, because they’re good Irish Catholics and, therefore, regulars there. Or Dock Fore, the bar owned by his father’s best friend, where I would go on Tuesday nights after I got out of work and read at the bar while waiting for him to get out of work, and the bartender gave me a little reading lamp to use while I was there. Or The East Ender, where we’d often go for karaoke at the end of a night out and he’d serenade me with Italian love songs no one could understand.
- His other uncle — allegedly “the scary one” — who, upon meeting me at Thanksgiving, clapped his nephew on the back and told him I was out of his league.
- His aunt, who sold antiques at my favorite antique shop.
- His sister-in-law, the only person I’d ever met with bunions as bad as mine, with whom I’d commiserate about our alien feet.
- His younger brother, who was just as unlucky in love as I and constantly pitied by his family in a way that hurt my heart.
- Our mutual friends, most of whom were his childhood friends and therefore chose him after the breakup. I really can’t blame them. They all warned me not to date him and fully expected him to break my heart. “You’re better off without him,” they told me before never talking to me again.
- My then-best friend, who just so happened to be married to his best friend. While my friendship with her lacked the depth I get from other female friendships, I didn’t know until it was too late that it also lacked basic empathy. She needs my kindness more than anyone, despite having little to spare for me.
I’m willing to bet you don’t know the fourth verse of “Auld Lang Syne.” It goes like this: “We two have paddled in the stream, / from morning sun till dine; / But seas between us broad have roared / since auld lang syne.”
I used to be in one big boat with these old acquaintances of mine, happily paddling the days away. But storms have raged and seas have roared since then. Maybe they’re to blame for our capsizing, maybe I am — too much time has passed for me to remember. But I’ve found my way back to solid ground. I hope they have too.
Emma Chance also writes The Overshare at emmachance.substack.com.
